It started with goodbye
by SterlingSilver07
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. John has been without Sherlock Holmes for three years, and still, grief plagues him with every step he takes. Though, when he begins receiving intriguing anonymous messages, it seems the tides have turned. (Unbeta-ed. If I get one, chapters will be re-uploaded)
1. Chapter 1

**One: Worse for the wear**

John sat in his chair, heaving a tired sigh as his fingers tapped furiously at the keys of his laptop. Since he had stopped responding to his phone, call or text, for anything that did not relate to work, he had now received his ninth email from detective investigator Lestrade. He'd groaned in annoyance before clicking the "reply" button. The man was still recruiting John to do some detective work on the side, likely hoping Sherlock had somehow rubbed off on him. Idiot, thought the army doctor sourly.

Some merit was to be offered, though, as Lestrade had waited longer than an entire year before bombarding John, giving him some much needed time to grieve. It wasn't enough. John was not sure it would ever be enough. Beside that, the idea that anyone could even begin to try picking up where the brilliant consulting detective had left off was completely ludicrous.

For many long months, Lestrade had called and sent him text messages almost non-stop. Occasionally, he would even pay John a visit in order to check up on him, and to further persuade him, all to no avail. John had no interest in surrounding himself by something which would undoubtedly envelope him in heart-wrenching memories. No, the surgery suited him just fine, thank you very much. John hit "send", then leaned back, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. The doctor pushed away from his desk, limping over to set the kettle before dropping himself to the sofa. He switched on the television, not bothering to adjust the channel. He rarely, if ever, really watched, he simply needed background noise to stave off the impending loneliness. It didn't help. Upon him moving to his new flat, Harry had insisted on him staying with her instead, but John had refused. He wanted to be alone, though now, he was not so sure.

He closed his eyes and the blackness of his eyelids, as always, became a window to his old life. A life back in 221B with Sherlock Holmes. His torturous mind conjured an image of himself watching crap telly while Sherlock's thin frame sat at the table, bent over a microscope. His arm reached out for a pen, and without even having to ask, John was up, pressing one into those long, slender fingers. Naturally, there was no thanks offered, regardless, John smiled at the handsome detective, who had still neglected to glance up from his work.

The image was shattered, and John's eyes opened at the familiar whistle of a boiling kettle. He frowned as pain laced his weary heart. To his utter dismay, he was not in the flat with Sherlock, he was in another apartment entirely, and he was completely alone. Gone was the warm lighting, and the homey clutter that made up the flat on Baker street, and now he was left in this dark, unwelcoming, too-tidy place. John could feel the walls closing in on him, the shrill scream of the kettle still piercing his ear drums. Dread filled his thoughts, and he could hardly see past the stinging tears which welled into his eyes. His breaths came fast and hard, and he could feel his chest compressing. Releasing a panicked wheeze, he reached forth, and with a clean motion, he swept all of the items from his coffee table onto the floor. Breathing a sigh of relief, he took in the scene before him. John almost smiled at the sight of the many newspapers and empty boxes of Chinese scattered about the ground. Finally, he could breathe again. He reached for his cane, pulling himself up to fix a cuppa. His body protested as he lumbered forth to the kitchen. Today had been one of his bad days. Pity, his therapist had declared he was doing so well.

John had lived in the little apartment for nearly a year and a half now and he still was not used to the feel of it. He felt like an unwanted guest in his own home. John couldn't have stayed in 221B; it was too full of everything that made up Sherlock. He could scarcely move without being plagued by agony and grief. He had not thrown anything of Sherlock's out, save for a few rancid experiments left in the refrigerator. Constantly, he felt he was tiptoeing around all of his things, as the majority of the stuff in their home had belonged to Sherlock. After eighteen months of torture, John left the rest for Mycroft to handle, he had to get out of there for the sake of his sanity. It had been almost three years since the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, and still, John was as weighed down by grief as ever. He could not find it in himself to let go.

Abandoning the steaming cup on the counter, John hobbled toward the bathroom where he started the shower. This was usually the highlight of John's nights, standing beneath the scalding stream of water, relaxing his muscles and easing the pain hindering his shoulder. His gaze fell to the floor of the tub, the pitter-patter of drops hitting the porcelain surface calmed him a degree. He allowed his mind to wander, and it brought him to a dark place. Blood was mixing with the water, spider-webbing outward uncontrollably from a head of dark curls. Lifeless blue eyes stared into nothingness. John's arms wrapped around himself as he sobbed audibly. Tears mingled with the water on his cheeks as he shut his eyes firmly, and he turned off the water. The doctor shivered, but not from the cold. Almost three years, and the images still couldn't be cleansed from his thoughts.

John realized that he no longer had an excuse to avoid sleep, and grudgingly, he headed to bed. He turned onto his good shoulder and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the inevitable nightmares once again. Almost three years, and he still dreamt of the man he cared for above all others dying each and every night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two: White Lilies**

Early morning was always a fleeting moment of bliss for John. The moment the doctor woke, he was briefly unchained from his pain. For that small period, Sherlock wasn't dead, John wasn't alone, and life wasn't bleak. That is, until the memories breached his mind anew. Throughout the night, John always woke several times, sweat drenched, and woeful. Eventually, he would fall to a deeper sleep, a dreamless one in which he could rest properly. This is what allowed him to wake to the calm.

As reality set in, John's face fell, and with a sad sigh, he heaved himself out of bed. Time to drag himself through yet another bleak day, except this one was different. It was infinitely worse, as this day marked the third anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' death. For the upteenth time, he would re-visit the grave, wishing it was himself beneath that polished stone instead. John was ordinary; the world would have been no different without him, but to deprive the planet of Sherlock was a true crime. He would gladly take his friend's place any day.

John did not attend work that day, as Sarah had elected to cover his shift for him. The woman had been extraordinarily accommodating in terms of John's healing process, or lack thereof. As a matter of fact, she had been one of many to suggest he returned to therapy. More than once, John had found himself curled in his chair, his gun held shakily to his head, and his eyes blinded with tears. Grudgingly, he'd gone back, acknowledging the fact that he was unable to cope on his own. Everything seemed off since Sherlock's death. His life was cloudier, and John found that he could not escape the fog alone. Though, he could not quite bring himself to seek the companionship of a significant other again. In fact, his last successful date had been just before that fateful day. Instead, John had settled for the shrink, and people like Sarah and Molly Hooper, both of whom had been a tremendous help to the army doctor.

The doctor had seen many men die in battle, and even a few had by his own hand, though this was different. This was not him fighting for his country, though he was an army doctor, he was no stranger to the battlefield. No, this was far worse. This was his best friend. The first person he'd seen each morning, and the last before retiring to his room for the night. He was the closest person to John, and he had not been able to save him. It was that thought haunting John's conscience each day.

John buttoned up his shirt, smoothed out the creases in his trousers, and he was out the door. Minutes later, he at the florist, meeting up with Mrs. Hudson.

"John," she whispered. She was misty-eyed, as she had been last year. Mrs. Hudson had loved Sherlock, possibly even as much as she would have a son, but she'd still been able to move on, and gotten on with her life, something John had failed to do. Still, as was expected, she was emotional on this day.

John made a feeble attempt at a smile, but grimaced instead. He pulled her into a secure embrace, her petite frame lost in his grasp. Pulling back, he avoided the elderly woman's shining eyes, and stepped over to the shop keep to purchase his usual bouquet. White lilies. The flowers which symbolize purity, John thought Sherlock would have gotten a kick out of it. With a sad sigh, he stood tall, looking to Mrs. Hudson for affirmation before limping forward, ready to pay homage to that polished rock once again.

The pair stood before the headstone, staring blankly at the name carved into its smooth black surface. Each time he saw it, it was like a punch to the gut. As though he were realizing it all over again. Sherlock is gone. Sherlock died. Pain lacerated his chest.

Hiding his tears, John bent down, removing the old dried-out bouquet, probably one Mycroft had sent out weeks ago, to place down the new. It was then that he noticed the folded slip of white paper. It had been placed beneath the dead flowers very recently, as it was completely clean. Hastily, he pocketed it as he laid down the fresh lilies. He rose, smiling wanly at Mrs. Hudson. After many minutes of silence, speaking, tears, and silence again, Mrs. Hudson excused herself. She kissed John briefly on the cheek and insisting that he come around more often for tea, and then she turned, hurrying away. She always left before John, likely to give him time alone, and for that, he was secretly grateful.

Sinking to his knees, John wept. Three years, and it was not any easier. It never would be. "You bastard, how could you leave me like that?" he managed between sobs.

****John collected himself, wiped off his face and stood, rolling back his shoulders until he fell into his habitual military stance. With that, he spun on his heel, walking off toward the taxi. He extracted the mysterious paper from his pocket, unfolding it, and read with bated breath. In a typewriter's font, it read: Three years, John, and you're still breaking. Is it not time to move forward?


	3. Chapter 3

**Three: Holding on to thin air**

Upon reading the letter, John furiously crumpled the paper, tossing it to the ground. He looked about, scanning the yard for the prankster. Someone was very insensitively poking fun at him, that much was clear. Immediately, he thought to Mycroft. Though, he was not sure the man would do something so childish and intentionally cruel, although, something about the man's cold and almost beady eyes had always disconcerted him.

With a gruff sound of disgust, John cast a wistful look to the grave before turning and stalking off as quickly as his defined limp would allow him.

Mrs. Hudson had gone, and as she had last year, she'd called him his own cab. Just as he reached the road, the car pulled up, and John made a mental note to thank the woman and to have a lunch with her in the near future. Murmuring his address to the cabbie, John checked his phone for messages, then set to watching the cemetery suspiciously.

John did not allow himself to think much of the note over the next few weeks. He worked long, gruelling hours at the surgery. Diligently, the army doctor had immersed himself in his work, keeping his mind so busy, he was too tired to think at the end of the day, and more importantly, he was too tired to dream. No dreaming equated to no nightmares. That suited John just fine.

It'd been weeks since he'd seen Mrs. Hudson in the graveyard, and John decided to ring her about having lunch. As always, she appeared thrilled to see him, which warmed John considerably. The doctor sat across from his old landlady, greeting her with enthusiasm.

"How are you, John?" she asked as they waited to order their dishes.

Sipping at a glass of water, John shrugged. "Same old. Get up, go to work, go home, sleep, then repeat." He chuckled almost bitterly, placing his glass on the table. His dark blue eyes wandered around the small restaurant, it was welcoming and small, though John still felt disconcerted.

The elderly woman frowned, dropping the subject entirely. She smiled wanly, continuing to make safer small talk as they ate.

John liked to see Mrs. Hudson. It was something familiar. An almost-pleasant reminder of his old life. Pleasant until memories of Sherlock came lurking, and for that to happen was inevitable. Sherlock had been the one to introduce him to Mrs. Hudson, after all. Eventually, what began as a pleasant lunch with an old friend, would progress to heartache. John began to focus more on his meal, pushing his pasta about his plate, but no longer hungry enough to eat it. Perhaps this had been a bad idea.

As they neared the end of their meeting, Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and took an exaggerated sip of her tea. She carefully set down the cup, adjusted the sweater she wore, and smoothed her hair. She was stalling. "John," she began, looking rather uncomfortable. She smiled stiffly. "As you know, I did not intend on renting out 221 B." Her voice died out.

John frowned. "But?"

"Mycroft had been paying me your monthly rate to keep the flat in tact. It appears no one wanted to take up the responsibility of handling _his_ things," she murmured. John did not need to ask who it was she referred to. It was obvious. "Though I've gotten an offer for almost double a month on that particular flat, and John, I have to take that offer."

Something inside John sank. Still, he nodded. "I understand," he said listlessly. He knew he had no right to feel as though this was a betrayal. It had been years now, and he knew that the flat remained uninhabited out of sentiment. Sherlock would have scoffed at that. He would have told them all that sentiment was illogical. Despite that, it was still a concept hard for him to swallow. Actually, it surprised him that Mycroft would not have matched the offer. He'd been paying to keep the flat all this time, what was a little more money?

Mrs. Hudson looked remorseful behind her false smile. "I would like you to come by, maybe take anything you would like to keep. Then help me pack things up to be moved. If it's not too much trouble," she said hopefully. It was clear that the woman did not like the situation any more than John did.

John nodded. He wasn't sure he could take anything from there, the nightmares and memories were bad enough, but to have tangible evidence of Sherlock might break him all over again. "I'll help," he assured her without thinking. "Where will everything go?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged her thin shoulders. "Storage, I suppose," she replied quietly. "I really am sorry, John."

John nodded again. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted enough to cover both himself and Mrs. Hudson along with a tip. "Give me a ring when you need me," he muttered. "It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Hudson." Without a backward glance, John left the cafe, a new hole burning into his chest.

* * *

A/N: Hi there! So, this is my first fanfic. I didn't know how to effectively post an author's note before. Sorry about that. Anyway, I apologize for taking so long to update. A lot has been going on lately, and writing tends to take the back seat. I'm trying to do at least one post a week, but if that doesn't happen, I'm sorry. Thank you for putting up with me! Also, sorry for the short chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four: A tedious chore**

John could barely breathe as the cab stopped. Slowly, he paid the driver, wanting to waste as much time as he could. Mrs. Hudson was already waiting with the door open for him as he reached the stoop. She greeted him with a hug and a sad smile.

John swallowed hard before pushing open the door of the flat he knew would be exactly as he'd left it. He stepped in, a frown on his face, immediately scanning the room for change. As he suspected, there was none. It was almost eerie in its sameness.

Mrs. Hudson, who had followed him up, was now nowhere to be found. He sighed tiredly, feeling as though this had been a trap. The army doctor began to trudge through the living room, timidly touching things as he passed them, as though he were trying to familiarize himself through feel. Much had a liberal coat of dust, further highlighting the appearance of no one having entered the flat since he'd walked out without a backward glance. He knew that it could not be completely true, of course, as the new tenant had to have toured the place before making such a generous offer. John huffed sourly at the notion. Damn the bastard responsible for making him do this. For tarnishing this sacred place. He placed the blame upon Mycroft, and that blasted new tenant. John dropped himself to the sofa, a flurry of dust particles tainting the air around him before settling, again, upon all things around him.

Without thinking, he pulled the throw pillow to his chest, buried his face into it, and promptly screamed. As he pulled back the Union Jack themed pillow, he realized he was crying. John cried a lot; it was a nasty habit he'd picked up three years prior. For an unknown stretch of time, John sat staring off at nothing in particular, lost completely to thought.

It was some time later that the man heard a quiet sound. It was Mrs. Hudson. What had she said? John had no idea. He watched her blankly a moment, cocking his head, then he said, "Excuse me?"

She appeared to be worried, though recovered it with a smile. "I asked if you were hungry," he said patiently.

John nodded once, rising from the sofa. "Right. No, I'm all right, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

She then vanished, leaving John to his own devices once more. He turned and began to rifle through papers on a table, setting them all in neat stacks awaiting storage. He diligently worked, taking a break only when Mrs. Hudson returned with tea. The two of them sorted for hours, and John was able to compartmentalize, blocking out any pain or feeling of any kind. He did a fine job, making small talk with Mrs. Hudson, and even allowing himself to reminisce just a bit. Soon, all was either bagged, filed away, or boxed. All save for the things in _his_ room. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that John do it, probably because she could not bring herself to do it herself. Regardless, it had to be done.

Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, John pushed open the door. He actually flinched as the door hit the adjacent wall, and after a slow exhale, he stepped inside. For a bedroom, it was strangely impersonal, which worked to John's advantage. There were no personal knick-knacks, no photos, nothing indicating that the room belonged to anyone in particular, really. Still, it broke down John's barriers. Sherlock had slept in that bed, when he actually did sleep. His clothes inhabited that closet. This place was his.

For a long while, John stood there, in the center of the bedroom. He didn't do anything, he just stood there. It was as though he were working up the courage to move, and maybe he was. It was so long since he'd been in this room. For the most part, he never entered it. It was too painful for him. And even though Sherlock was dead, he felt he would be invading the man's privacy by venturing inside. He frowned.

The army doctor finally stepped forth, throwing open the closet's door, and in one great sweep, he grabbed everything that hung there, and dumped it all on the bed. He folded each item neatly, sorting out the garments. His lip quivered often, but he prided himself at not crying once during this tedious chore. He then began to empty the drawers of the small dresser, doing the same with the clothes in there.

Every drawer was filled save for the top one. That one held nothing in it. Nothing except for one folded slip of paper. His dark blue eyes widened, and he reached for it. Swallowing hard, he opened the note.

"John, are you all right?" asked Mrs. Hudson, using that single moment to come check up on him.

Shoving the paper into his pocket, he whirled around, nodding at the woman. "Yes, fine," he said tightly.

She was nodding, looking about the room. "For such a chaotic soul, you'd think the room would be just as cluttered as the rest of the flat," she murmured, her eyes glazing. She shut them a moment and shook her head, forcing a smile. "Anyway, have you found anything worth keeping?"

John shook his head a little too quickly, his cheeks burning. Though she seemed to buy it, he felt strangely bad for lying, and guilty for not informing her of the paper. Then again, she had said he could take anything he'd liked. She had boxes in her wrinkled hands, which she handed to John.

"The movers will be here any minute," she told him before leaving the room.

Instantly, he dropped the empty boxes to the floor and fished out the now-crumpled paper. Reading it, he frowned. John was not sure what he'd been expecting, though this was far from it. In what he presumed to be the same typewriter's font, a short message was addressed to him.

_Is it not said that all good things come to an end, John?_

Someone was attempting to screw with his head. He stuffed the message back into his pocket, scrubbed away the lone tear that had found its way down his cheek, and he proceeded to fill the boxes. Moments later, a team of men arrived in a moving truck. John left without so much as a farewell to Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry I've been so elusive! I've been preparing for my trip, which I leave for just hours. I had to give you guys _something_ before I went and disappeared for another eight days. I'm quite busy these days. I promise to post when I can. Thank you to the support of my few followers. I get so encouraged each time I get a new one.


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